#thetenthman

IF MY MOOD HAD NOT BEEN soured earlier, maybe I would feel better about going out with Ilya Rozanov. I had texted him an easy conversation of good game and it ended up spiraling into something more or less...intimate? No, not the right word, God. That makes it sound... wrong.

But somehow, someway, I ended up spilling more of my personal life to him than I want to ever admit. To the point of a stupid shirtless photo, too, to get him off my back. It... kind of worked? I don't know.

So now, I'm standing before the entrance of the club we had agreed to meet. The make up I applied had smudged, I'm sure, and while the air is crisp I'm thankful for it. It will mean the bodies and heat radiating off of them won't bother me as much too soon, and I can get at least a few hours of comfortable escape before I'm overheated and need to step outside.

Escape.. With Ilya. Of all people. Shit. What am I doing?

I send him a text. Something short, a photo of my black shoes and jeans on the pavement lit up by some of the red neon reflecting from the lights above. Tapping, I add an I'm here. Where the hell r u? and hit send with looks between every obnoxious, flashy car I can lay my eyes on.

I know enough about Ilya to know his tastes. One perk from dating Scott, I guess... if you can call it a perk?

I'm growing more inpatient by the minute. If it were someone I was closer to, someone like Shawn or Elena, maybe I would be more accommodating but the standing is starting to make me irritable. But just as I'm about to text again- double texting. How desperate.- I see his smug self dressed to the nines and suddenly, wow, maybe I am overdressed.

I thought the point of going out was to get me a distraction, not for Ilya to take the attention. But maybe he would do that regardless. He's Ilya Rozanov. I'm Kip Grady. Who is really going to be catching eyes?

"Jesus, thought you'd never be here." I say, slipping my phone into my pocket and trading it for my wallet, prematurely planning for a drink and whoever is at the door. "Everything okay?"

There were only two reasons that Shane, Scott, and Ilya would be on the ice at the same time. Shane’s personal hell and the All-Star’s Weekend. Which were quickly becoming the same thing. The silver lining was that he was on a team with Scott, and no one seemed to question them being attached at the hip any longer. Not that they ever really had. The media was into the friendship, something wholesome coming from the NHL for once.

It’s a charity game. There’s not usually a lot of violence involved with that. Because it was a friendly exhibition and there was nothing on the line. Rozanov had taken it as a personal challenge to throw his weight into Shane every chance he got on the ice. And everyone ate it up.

Shane had barely escaped having to do the post-game interview, sacrificing poor Scott.

Not entirely my fault: the taxi driver stopped at every red light in the city, which I would usually see as responsible behavior, maybe even admirable, except for the fact that I needed to be somewhere I was already running late for, and I couldn't tell the guy to hurry because that would mean explaining why, and explaining why wasn't an option.

My fiancé is playing, please. I need to watch my fiancé play. My fiancé, who no one else knows about. Faster, please.

So I didn't. I just smiled and watched the meter climb in silence, bouncing my knee.

I'm here now, though. That's what matters. I'm here with a duffel bag I didn't have time to leave anywhere and a fresh bag of popcorn that I was in the middle of buying when I heard the horn through the concourse walls, signaling the start of the game.

I settle in my seat rather quickly, leathery and comfortable with good view, even if a little far. Ilya's guests get good seats, which says a lot about how he lives his life when I'm not around. There's a lot of that here, an entire hemisphere of his life I've been getting to know in pieces and get to delve into now.

I settle the duffel between my knees and look out at the ice. Look out for him, specifically. But as I scan, I find nothing useful. Numbers, maybe, if only I knew which one he's wearing tonight, but I don't, since All-Star rosters get different jerseys and I didn't think to ask. Rookie mistake.

I munch on some popcorn and try to locate him by process of elimination, which isn't a reliable plan but it's all I've got until someone nearly takes a penalty.

Rozanov.

I hear his name over the speakers and spot the jersey almost immediately after, along with the man wearing it, and my heart skips. As it does every time my eyes land on him.

He is fine, more than fine. I knew he was fine, in his element, but all things considered, he's handling himself really well, skating as if what he's carrying isn't there, that little something that I (well, that he, but on my behalf) put there. It doesn’t seem to bother him one bit, which I commend him for.

Especially because, right now, Ilya looks exactly like what he is: the best player on the ice, though possibly the most frustrating one, definitely the one every other player seems eager to hit at the first chance. So when I see someone angle toward him, my grip on the bag tightens.

Can you be scared and aroused at the same time? Apparently, yes. I'm learning a lot about myself tonight.

He shakes them off without looking back, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Nobody here is worrying about him half as much as I am. Nobody in this arena knows who I am to him, what he is to me. Nobody watching him right now knows what I know. Nobody knows he's mine, that I love him, and that when all of this is over, I'll be taking him home. Right now, I'm just a man in the guest seats, and Ilya is just Rozanov, the hockey player.

I eat more popcorn and hope his team wins. It would be a great start to our evening.

"I feel like that nickname needs an upgrade."

Maybe he shouldn't be pushing him when Scott is very clearly struggling, but he can't help it. The scariest Scott looks is on the ice, and even then it barely scratches the surface. Right now, he's god damn adorable.

"I make mojitos and margs now. And you make...." his brow raises at the bowl of... well... " dinner ? " He's trying to be supportive. Really.

4. a ✮ for eric, you pick who's wheeeeere

At first it felt like neither knew what to do. Not that they were ignorant to how it worked with another guy, just that they hadn't thought it through to this point yet on account of...

Well.

There just weren't a lotta thoughts goin' through Rae's mind when he made a move besides makin' sure he didn't miss the lips and didn't knock teeth together or somethin'.

He rode that train as far it might take him and now they were here, and boy he was so nervous he almost laughed, which felt wholly inappropriate somehow.

The laugh is sharp, loud, breaking the soft sounds of the office in which they sit. Ilya as if he'd been poured there. Relaxed, bored, annoyed but mostly inconvenienced. Holding court in an empty room, caring little about its only other occupant. "You would tell me I need to do better?" Another scoff, Ilya shaking his head. "I meet my goals. On the ice. In life. The rest feels like is your business, no?"